


Bonetumult

by ClockworkSampi



Series: Sampi's Underfell Theatre [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:39:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7219135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkSampi/pseuds/ClockworkSampi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey kid, hold up. My bro, he’s been kind of down lately. More so than usual. And it’s just not fun putting him down if he’s putting himself down, dig? He’s never seen a human before, so if you could just pretend that he’s as dread as he says he is, that would be great. Don’t worry; he’s not actually dangerous or anything. You will? Sick. See you up ahead.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bonetumult

“Oh my god!” trilled the Dread Papyrus. “I finally did it, Sans! Me! The Dread Papyrus, has captured a human! The Captain will…I’m gonna be so…I’ll finally be” – his hands flew to his blushing cheekbones – “feared by all!!”

 

Frisk offered a little wave.

 

Papyrus coughed, and extended a gloved finger at them. “Attention, vile human! Your rampage of terror ends here! Ended by me, the Dread Papyrus! As much as I would like to kill you right here and now, the ancient traditions of monstrosity must be upheld. I have deployed several puzzles throughout the area, all of them of make bordering on transcendence, which is only natural considering they were made by ME!”

 

Sans shuttered, as if he just remembered a joke Frisk and Flowey were unaware of. Papyrus was still speaking:

 

“After your puny human brain falls for the most basic of these puzzles you will be captured and sent to the capital! However!” he said with a very earnest evil smirk. “As Captain Undyne always says, the state in which you arrive is _extremely_ unspecified,” his brow knit and he murmured, as in afterthought, “for some reason…”

 

Papyrus peered at Frisk’s patient smile. His armor clanked as he straightened himself. “Nevertheless! Proceed! Only! If! You! Dare! Nyeh heh heh heh heh heh heh heh heh…!” the laughter faded as he ran into the forest.

 

Sans wiped his sweaty visage. “Wow. It’s almost believable that he’s kinda a legitimate threat to a child and their flower. Good job you two.”

 

“Anything to brighten someone’s day,” said Frisk.

 

“And you’re sure he’s not dangerous?” said Flowey, who had not taken his eyes off of the blade strapped to Papyrus’s back during his monologue.

 

“Weelllll,” drawled Sans, “I’ll tell you what, bud, he did read a book on the fundamentals of violence once a long time ago. But he never really understood what it was talking about. Very detailed book. But sadly no pictures and plenty of words three syllables out of Papyrus’s range. Like moronic.”

 

“No pictures?” said Frisk. “It couldn’t have been that graphic, then.”

 

Then there was a silence. Sans’s perspiration, if in fact possible, intensified.

 

Finally, he, with austere caution, said, “If only he had read a book on teleportation…” and watched Frisk critically.

 

“Then he would have gotten somewhere, is what you’re saying?” said Frisk deftly. “Maybe he should read a book on mazes…”

 

“Yeah. I heard they’re really easy to get lost in.” Sweat now dripped off Sans’s sleeves. “Or maybe a gravity book…”

 

“Those can really draw you in,” agreed Frisk.

 

Flowey gagged, looking in a wilting sort of mentality.

 

“These are all novel ideas, but you should get moving, kid. Papyrus has the patience of a squirrel with a goldfish brain. Which is zero, because a goldfish brain cannot sustain function inside of a squirrel.”

 

“Right. We’ll shelve this conversation for now.”

 

Frisk and Sans stared into each other’s eyesockets, and then wordlessly, in a tableau of camaraderie unknown to the Underground in generations, clasped hands as equals.

 

\-----

 

This, as is regrettably typical of decisions made in the heat of the pun, was ultimately a judgement of consequence. Your brain was always thinking with a laser-edged focus; you never stop to think about the consequences of your actions. Puns, in this respect, were much like second-degree murder, and not merely of lingual traditions.

 

And so Frisk was still wiping the sweat off their damp, freezing hand past the invisible maze, through that odd dog with the daggers, up to when they and Flowey arrived at what was almost certainly a piece of paper lying in the snow. Sans and Papyrus stood beyond it, each appearing sweaty or irritable enough for his brother.

 

“Sans! Where is the puzzle?” shouted Papyrus.

 

Sans glanced at him, as turning his head would require exertion. “What? You don’t see it? It’s right there.”

 

“You mean the _paper_?”

 

“That’s the one.”

 

“You mean the paper the contemptible human just rubbed all over their hideous, _skin covered_ hand?!”

 

Frisk looked up. Then at the drooping pulp in their fingers, feeling the deepest shame of their life. So eager were they to rid their hand from its sweaty clutches that they failed to take into account their liberator may have transcribed upon it a word search, the most ancient and venerable of didactic contrivances.

 

“Welp,” said Sans perfunctorily. “Thwarted again. Whachagonnado?”

 

“You could try TRYING!” said Papyrus.

 

Sans gave this due consideration.

 

“Maybe I could have used the crossword instead of the word search,” he decided.

 

“Sans, all your puzzles are always the same thing! They’re never not flimsy paper a human wipes their bodily fluids on!”

 

Sans put a third of a half-effort into looking reproachful. “Bro, listen. One day when you're older, you’ll learn that less puzzle is secretly more puzzle.”

 

“What are you talking about, Sans? Humans love massive puzzles! It's all they think about all the time. I rented a human behavior documentary from Doctor Alphys and it proved it! Very decisively! Over and over!”

 

“Listen, it’s not the size of the puzzle, it’s how well all the pieces move in such a way to trap a human.”

 

“Oh sure,” scoffed Papyrus. “No swinging blades? No giant rolling balls? No lethal, spasm-inducing electrocution? No _block pushing_? Those are the things that make a puzzle!”

 

“That’s the thing about large puzzles, ain’t it? All show, no substance. They look impressive enough, but lack penetration when it counts. Whereas a simple puzzle done perfectly can stay with a human for their entire adventure, and keep them coming back for more.”

 

“And you hardly ever put any out! Leaving out as many puzzles as possible grants more chances to make a human yours!”

 

“Come on, bro. Only desperate amateurs go up to every human they find and brag about how big their puzzles are and expect them to go for it every time. Puzzles lose value if they’re done too much. You got to make it a surprise. It’ll be more special that way.”

 

“I can scarcely believe my own flesh and blood would speak such heresy! YOU!” Frisk snapped out of doodling snow flowers and stood upright. “Yes, you, human child! You are without a doubt an expert on such things. So! Which is better: large puzzles or small puzzles?”

 

At this point, it was obvious the cold was getting to Flowey; he looked quite pale and near the verge of vomit.

 

Frisk cleared their throat. “‘Only the fearless may proceed. Brave ones, foolish ones. Both walk not the middle road.’” Upon looking at the brothers’ blank and, in one instance, very sweaty expressions, Frisk added: “If you have to do something, go big or go home. All the way without stopping. Large puzzles.”

 

Papyrus grinned wickedly at the human. It bespoke of a skeleton who had eternally master debated to puzzles alone and had finally found someone to join him.

 

“Ha! You hear that, Sans! Even the human, with its brain the size of an acorn, knows puzzle excellence when it sees it. Just wait until you’re captured, human, I’ll show you how large my puzzles can get! You will choke with tears at their sublime enormity!” He spun and bolted, leaving evanescent “Nyeh!”s resounding through the trees.

 

Sans shook his head at the staring Frisk. Droplets of sweat flicked off and froze mid-fall. “Why did you have to go and tell him that? I know I asked you to raise his spirits and I’ll concede that every skeleton needs his funny bone tickled, but come on. There has to be a limit somewhere. Now he’s happy, and I’m going to have to work twice as hard to make him see he’s worthless at everything he does.” He sighed. “A brother’s work is never done, I tell ya.”

 

\-----

 

Desolation.

 

That was the only word for it.

 

Frisk covered their mouth with their hand as they walked. Tears threatened the corners of their eyes. Who - no, the thing that did this couldn’t be a ‘who’ – _what_ did this? And for what reason? How could anything demolish such fragile beauty?

 

“Snowdogs,” said Flowey, as if speaking of something so mundane as the weather. “Wonder why they’re torn down.”

 

Frisk, for a guilty second, considered smacking him upside the peduncle for such wanton sacrilege of high art, but that wouldn’t be nice, and the thought was discarded. He was right about one thing though; it was no accident.

 

A cervine monster was lounging against yet another sentry station smoking a cigarette and watching the duo with a hopeful disinterest that Frisk had come to associate with berets and bongo drums.

 

Frisk sidled up to it carefully, in case it broke into spontaneous smash poetry.

 

“Pardon me…um, sir?...but what-” Frisk sniffed wetly “-what happened here?”

 

The monster tapped the ash off its cigarette and said, “That dog…the dog who runs this station…it’s an artist of the highest degree…hates to call itself one…it creates these…wonderful sculptures…to get them out of its kibble-sized head…only to demolish them later…the Royal Battalion does not employ artists…it’s not done…society, man…it gets a dog down…not too long ago…that dog rushed in…neck so short it was all but nonexistent…started swinging his sword at his own creations…a sad sight…” The monster went on, but all it seemed interested in saying at this point was bongo noises.

 

Frisk took this as an opportunity to slide away surreptitiously. They looked across the cold field, a pain still lingering in their heart. Their features hardened. A familiar warmth ebbed in their Soul.

 

The hope that one day the dog will overcome societal expectations and embrace its true nature in earnest…it filled them with Determination.

 

\-----

 

Papyrus listened to the bridge-crossing discussion with disgust. Sans was nowhere to be seen, and, as always, it fell to the Dread Papyrus to unleash the Gauntlet of Deadly Terror and finally capture the human menace once and for all.

 

“What a nice dog.” That was the human’s voice.

 

“What dog?” And that one belonged to that flower.

 

“You know, the one we just played with?”

 

“Oh. That was a nice dog, was it?”

 

“Maybe a little rambunctious, but it calmed down well enough.”

 

“Uh-huh. And was this before or after it attempted to run you through with a spear twice your height?”

 

“After. Obviously. All it took was a bit of the tried and true Raise Voice.” Here was break in the conversation; Papyrus, for one, found the image of the human doing cartwheels fit neatly into it. “Such a shame. I really would have liked to Pet _one_ dog today.”

 

“Things would have gone much safer and faster if you actually used that Stick you’ve been dragging around.”

 

“You think? Because I honestly doubt that the dogs have been trained to fetch.”

 

“Not really what I was getting at, Frisk.” Ah. So the human’s name was Frisk. Papyrus would have to be sure to remember to forget that.

 

“Or maybe I’m over thinking this. The concept of ‘Fetch’ might be intrinsic in the DNA, which, of course, stands for the Dog Natural Abilities…”

 

“Just like mauling trespassers.”

 

“Flowey. I think I figured out why we’re friends. Because you’re so negative, and I’m so positive, we just impulsively attract each other.”

 

“Ha ha.”

 

“What a polar response. You must be out of the current loop.”

 

“Nah. There’s just a certain kind of pun that repulses me.”

 

This human was getting on Papyrus’s last nerve, which, considering his lack of a nervous system, was a considerable accomplishment.

 

How easily they traipsed through his perfectly calibrated puzzles. What impudence they had to agree with his puzzle philosophy. Why had the human been so infuriatingly patient when he described the rules to Doctor Alphys’s colored tile puzzle, and why did it _not_ infuriate him when they solved that frozen over X-O puzzle? Why had he felt _happy_? He didn’t know what sort of witchcraft the human was using on him to make him feel these pleasant things, but he hated it.

 

But these were not the human’s worst affronts, oh no. He slaves, _slaves_ , over an open fire to make the ultimate spaghetti trap, and what does the human do but snub it right back in his face by not eating it!

 

It took all his willpower not to faint with infatuation right there.

 

What a monstrous display of pure evil! And! _And_!! The human had mobilized the exceptionally advanced tactic of false yet ironically sincere sounding apologies in conjunction!

 

It was then Papyrus realized he was dealing with a master of cruelty.

 

Nonetheless, his apparent, very certainly respect for another expert of the craft, did not explain why presently he stood with the Gauntlet of Deadly Terror primed, opposite of the smiling human, and his body refusing to press the activation button.

 

Furthermore, why was the human just standing there in an undeniably non-trembling-for-their-life fashion? Had they seen this before? Could it be that the Gauntlet of Deadly Terror was…boring?

 

Were they unimpressed?

 

Well. Papyrus was a skeleton with standards. He didn’t use second rate puzzles that couldn’t inspire fear in such a lowly creature as a–

 

Wait.

 

He hadn’t realized it before, but the human…the human was _wearing **clothing**_! Hadn’t he read a book about this? Hadn’t it said…

 

…yes. Yes! Of course!

 

Away with the Gauntlet of Deadly Terror! The Dread Papyrus had no need of it now.

 

It all made sense now! Naturally, being the Dread Papyrus, he had always known this person would show up eventually. It was unexpected that they would be a human, a pathetic human so desperate for attention that it would stoop to puzzle mania and being unnecessarily rude to random strangers in an exorbitantly childish display, but who was he to complain? Not everyone was perfect like him.

 

A plan in his skull, a hand on his sword and several “Nyeh heh heh!”s escaping his mouth, he sprinted toward the entrance of Waterfall, which, as he read in a magazine, was number five on most dramatic fight locations in the Underground.

 

This was going to be the start of something _wonderful_!

 

\-----

 

Snowdin proved to be an eventful town.

 

First of such events was that outlandish shop they stopped at to resupply. Flowey had demanded one adamantly, citing this as the purpose of towns and how frustrated that tall skeleton looked. All the more confusing that after only a moment in the shop he whispered:

 

“Erm. Frisk? I don’t think you should be here.”

 

“Well, duh. You could’ve told me that before I Fell down.”

 

“No. I mean,” Flowey gestured at Frisk. “You, categorically you, should not be in this categorical store at this categorical point in your life.”

 

“And _now_ you’ve made me _curious_.”

 

Flowey sunk and resigned himself to the fact that he had, once again, corrupted a mind that didn’t deserve it; time and space couldn’t stand in the way of an inquisitive Frisk.

 

After a few disheartening minutes, Frisk had to agree that Flowey had a point. This store, against every conceivable expectation, did not seem to contain anything even remotely damaging to human children.

 

Frisk knew that leather was a traditional material to fashion armor out of. It was easy to mold, simple to take care of and could stop a plastic knife in its tracks. That said, Frisk expressed doubts that the armor on display would protect from the cold. The monsters’ situation must have been even more dire than Frisk had read about from Toriel’s books if they had to ration out their leather so strictly.

 

In another aisle, a fine collection of collars and leashes presented themselves, which, while Frisk didn’t want to stereotype, seemed like something one would have in a town with a sizeable dog population.

 

They eyed the assemblages of chains and padlocks worryingly. Were there a lot of robberies here? Sure, Snowdin seemed peaceful enough, but one should never judge based on appearances alone.

 

The weapons section was nearly equally as poor as the armor selection. Not that Frisk would have used one, but it certainly never hurts to be thorough. In fact, sometimes it grants benefits, as among the wholly battle-impractical whips and crops, Frisk found a tucked away bandanna with a rather…masculine design on it. Exactly the Defensive boost they needed!

 

It was on the way to the check out that Frisk glanced upon a shelf of some actually intriguing articles.

 

“Flowey,” they said, “can humans use magic?”

 

“I’ve never met any that could, if that’s what you’re asking,” came the muffled voice of Flowey. He had taken up burring his face in Frisk’s shoulder while they pursued the store. “Why?”

 

“Because it looks like they sell magic wands here. Look! One’s even trembling with barely contained magical might!”

 

The noise that came out of Flowey was incomprehensible, were it even speech, but Frisk figured it meant not to waste money on something they would never use. This, Frisk supposed, was true

 

The lagomorph woman at the front register was pleasant, conversational, hardly dressed and, when Frisk mentioned that they might need a few HP restoratives in a pinch, directed their attention to a snack rack of sorts above a freezer, which contained within its chilly reaches some popsicles that looked like they would be difficult to eat, but Frisk conceded that human and monster mouths had to be shaped differently.

 

They grabbed a few ‘Sinnamon Buns’ form the rack instead. The woman informed them, as she tapped some keys on the register, that she made them herself, and, apparently, they were in the shape of something hilarious. Frisk couldn’t see it. It certainly wasn’t a rabbit, and Frisk’s voluminous pun repository failed to produce anything else a ‘bun’ could be, especially taking into account the location of the pastry’s frosting.

 

“That went well,” declared Frisk as they stepped out, tying the new bandanna around their neck.

 

“Better than I thought,” said Flowey, staring directly ahead.

 

“And,” Frisk gave a final tug on the knot, “I figured out why all the armor in there was so lacking.”

 

Flowey managed to avoid gulping. “Have you now?”

 

“Yeah. See, it was the rabbit lady that tipped me off.” Flowey turned to Frisk so fast, there was a floral _snap_.

 

“ _What_!? _Tipped you off where_?”

 

“Because all the monsters here are furred! They don’t _need_ to wear a lot to keep warm!”

 

“Yep. Got it in one, partner.” The combination of the timbre of words with the slight tug of Flowey’s mouth made it seem like he was suppressing a laugh.

 

Frisk could not imagine what was humorous about learning these important ethnic facts.

 

The duo stumbled into another event outside what looked to be a restaurant.

 

It was a mouse. Specifically, a mouse currently being held in stocks.

 

Frisk looked at it with concern. “Excuse me. Are you alright?”

 

The mouse glanced up ponderously. “Could be better. Nose itches.”

 

“Would you like me to scratch it?”

 

“You would do that?”

 

“Oh sure. An itch like that is nothing to sneeze at.”

 

The mouse laughed a coarse laugh that rapidly slid down into coughing avalanche.

 

“…ah…don’t make me laugh like that. I don’t think I’ve had water yet today. Good one, though.”

 

“So what did you do? If you don’t mind me asking,” said Frisk, in the act of nose scratching.

 

“Ahh. Thank you. That feels great.” The mouse sniffed. “What did I do? I believe it was seventy-eight accounts of puns told, the angry fish lady said.”

 

“What?” This was from Flowey. Frisk, their jaw hanging open, didn’t look present at the moment.

 

“Wait, really? Where have you two been? Out with those teen troublemakers in the woods? The King decreed all puns were subject to a misdemeanor charge with the ‘Changing Jokes To Be Misdemeanors Act.’ It was enacted forever ago.”

 

“Come again?”

 

“Yeah. ‘cuz, y’see, jokes, ergo puns, spread hope and joy, and the King, like, super outlawed hope and joy. Supposedly it undermined the war effort by making everyone forget all the crowding, the lack of sunlight, the general anguish and, you know, over all suckiness of the Underground. I think that’s how it went. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a history class. I know at least two people in this town who are political nuts, if you want a better answer.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“And me? I’m the funniest guy around! Can’t help but crack a little joke every now and again, can I? Well, maybe I’m the second funniest one around. The funniest around without some kind of magical political immunity, definitely.”

 

Frisk appeared to gain a semblance of mental clarity.

 

“So!” they said, as one might to ward dark spirits. “How long have you been in there!”

 

“What day is today?” the mouse inquired.

 

“Saturday,” said Flowey.

 

“Twenty-three days, then.”

 

“Twenty-three days?!” Frisk looked struck.

 

“I know!” the mouse beamed, “ _And_ I get three gallons of water and a loaf of bread a day! Here’s hoping they’ve forgotten about me. I should get arrested more often if the King decided prisoners get the deluxe treatment.”

 

Frisk gesticulated pleadingly at Flowey. The plant shrugged. “It _is_ a pretty good deal.”

 

“But–”

 

“Frisk, you need to understand. The King of Monsters may not be the greatest of guys, but he’s the _monsters_ ’ guy, get it?”

 

“You can say that again!” cheered the mouse. “The King is the best arranger of heads on pikes in the entire Underground.”

 

“He’s,” Flowey paused, trying to find the proper word, “…familiar. Though I wouldn’t want a part of any family he’s in. He’s the beacon in the port of call monsters can rally around without fear in this uncertain world.”

 

Frisk relinquished. Sometimes, you had to accept cultural differences as what they were. “Well, I hope you make it out, mouse-friend. My friend and I need to get going.”

 

“Oh, don’t you worry about me. I was the one who broke the King’s law. Besides,” The mouse’s eyes sparkled, “all I need is someone to soap me up and I’ll slide right out. A clean getaway! Squeaky clean, you might say! Ha ha! Also, please don’t help me escape. I’ve got a great gig here.”

 

Frisk looked helpless at the prospect of someone who didn’t want help, but stalked towards the Snowdin outskirts regardless.

 

“Do you think I can get one more pick-me-up?” called the mouse.

 

“Not now,” said Frisk over their shoulder. “I don’t have any more in stock.”

 

The third eventful event came in the form of Sans, who was sitting on the front steps to, presumably, his house. A waterfall of sweat had cascaded down the steps and frozen over across the way. He swirled a decanter of mustard.

 

Sans nodded as the duo approached. “Sup, kid, bud? Can I ent _ice_ to _chill_ with me, watch some losers slip on the ice? Quality entertainment.”

 

Frisk stomped up. “Did you know that puns are banned?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“But you tell them all time! We had a moment!” they said, profoundly betrayed.

 

“Thats ‘cuz I’m what you would refer to scientifically as a ‘baller.’ Trust me. I know science.” He took a swig of mustard. “Take it you’re gonna be fighting the Dread Papyrus soon?”

 

“No.” Frisk’s response was immediate.

 

Sans waved vaguely. “He’s gonna be fighting you, though, which is close enough. If I were you, I’d brush up on my Blue Attacks.”

 

Frisk nodded. As they turned to walk away, Sans snapped his phalanges. “Almost forgot again,” he said. “Bud, can I talk to you mono-a-mono for a second?”

 

Flowey shrugged. “Sure. Why not, right? I trust you not to kill me.”

 

“Dangerous thinking there, bud.”

 

“You don’t act like the murderous type. Murder, I find, involves doing work.”

 

“You know what, flower? Fair enough.”

 

After the unexpectedly simple procedure of untangling Flowey’s roots from Frisk’s arm and retangling them on Sans’s, he set off toward the thick fog on the Snowdin outskirts.

 

“Be back before you’ll ever notice we’re gone,” he said.

 

Which Frisk knew to be false. Every second spent without a friend was forever burned in their memory, as is the case with rare events. They plopped themselves on the steps where Sans had been, chin cupped morosely in their hand for exactly five seconds and fourteen milliseconds, whereupon they noticed Sans left the decanter of mustard.

 

Well, if there weren’t any friends in the vicinity, they would have to _make_ some, like they always had.

 

They leaned over, their arm hovering only just outside the decanter’s personal space.

 

“Well _hello_ there. I’m new in cold, cold town and I was going to ask if knew anywhere _hot_ , but it looks like you’ve got the hotness to spare.”

 

The mustard did not do so much as acknowledge this.

 

“It must be said, you have some impressive craftsmanship. You’re curves just go on and on…”

 

The mustard indicated in no uncertain terms that it did not take kindly to the assumption that the only impressive thing about it was its body.

 

“I hope this isn’t too personal a question, but what are you made out of? If it’s what I think it is, then you’re perfect to be my honey.”

 

But the mustard was not one to be taken in by such crass Flirting.

 

A door opened and closed somewhere behind Frisk. Sans and Flowey walked out from the back of the house, looking solemn.

 

“Frisk? Um, if it’s alright with you, I think I’m going to stay with Sans for a little while.” Flowey offered a sorry expression. “But I don’t want you to think I’m abandoning you or anything–”

 

“‘k, if that’s what you want.” Frisk hopped up from the steps. “I’ll admit, I’m going to miss you being on my arm. You were really growing on me.”

 

In the distance, a solitary mouse coughed.

 

“And Sans,” Frisk nudged the skeleton in the ribs conspiratorially and oscillated an eyebrow rapidly, “That’s some good stuff you have there. Spicy. Sweet. Loyal. Don’t let it go for anything.” Then they walked off, masterfully sliding on the frozen sweat and continuing with hardly a beat lost.

 

Once they had suitably vanished into the fog, Sans said, “Any idea what that was about?”

 

Flowey was an expert on things. That is to say, highly knowledgeable on just about everything that has ever happened, and ever will. It was a distinction he held for what was, essentially, an infinite amount of time. Every possibility of every action from every branching timeline, utterly traced to complete finality an endless number of times, driven forward in a ceaseless march by the sole refusal to let it all end. Indeed, there was nothing Flowey did not know about the world and its inhabitants.

 

He shook his head. “Not a one. That human is some kind of possibility spark plug. Honestly, they haven’t done anything that _hasn’t_ surprised me. Your guess about their impact on the timeline is as good as mine.”

 

\-----

 

The fog may as well have had solid mass. It weighed densely in Frisk’s lungs, it skived their eyelids, it slithered across their skin, osmosing through their thick sweater membrane with freezing dampness. Worst of all, they realized as they stumbled over an errant snow poff, was how it suffocated their vision. At least it was reasonable to trip over something like a snow poff in its natural environment. Who would take them seriously anymore if they saw Frisk trip on something ridiculous. For example, a bed of spikes. Boy, would Frisk’s face be red then!

 

Then there was someone else ahead of them, his form likewise shadowed by the fog.

 

“Human!” The Dread Papyrus commanded. “The Dread Papyrus commands your attention! And I will use it to regale you with an expertly woven tale of some extremely complicated feelings. Feelings like the finding someone who also loves to spread misery, the exhilaration of competing against another puzzlesmith, the need to have someone cool enjoy the things you make.

 

“Speak not, human! The Dread Papyrus is well aware: these are the feelings lacing their way across your mental worldscape. Verily, such emotions are unknown to one as magnificent as the Dread Papyrus; I never have to _wonder_ what having so many admirers is like.

 

“No! Stay thy tongue, wretched human! Today is indeed as glorious venture for you, for upon this day, I declare that the Dread Papyrus shall, for now and forever, be your…” he stopped and stared at his boots.

 

The figure griped his skull. “No. No! What am I doing!? We cannot be rivals! You are a human and I am a monster! It wouldn’t be natural. I _must_ capture you!”

 

There was a sound like a whisper of silk as he drew his sword. “I! Am! Going! To! Capture! You! _I will prove them all wrong_! Recognized! Respected! Redoubtable! That will be what they call Papyrus! The newest member of the Royal Battalion!!”

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked what you read, please consider commissioning me to write for you, it'll help me out a lot!: http://clockworksampi.tumblr.com/post/146010687102/sampis-commission-information
> 
> The joke of this piece is that nearly everyone who writes Underfell uses it for for butt-touching stuff with the skeleton brothers, so I made it as sexual innuendo-y as possible. DID YOU GET THE JOKE?
> 
> The Undefell AU was not made by me. You can find more information on it here: http://underfell.tumblr.com/


End file.
